One day, oppressed by a deadly ennui, with no hope for the negotiations with the city and no news from England, the cardinal went out for the sake of going out, accompanied solely by Cahusac and La Houdinière. He rode along the beach, comparing the immensity of his dreams with the immensity of the ocean, his horse plodding along at a slow walk. He arrived on a little hillock, from the top of which he saw, beyond a hedge, reclining on the sand and enjoying the rare appearance of the sun, seven men surrounded by empty bottles. Four of these men were our musketeers, preparing to listen to a letter that one of them had just received. This letter was so important it had made them forget their cards and dice, abandoned on the drumhead they’d been using as a game table.
The other three were occupied in uncorking an enormous demijohn of Collioure wine. These were messieurs’ lackeys.
As mentioned, the cardinal was in a very somber mood, and when he was in that state of mind nothing depressed him more than others’ gaiety. Worse, he always suspected that his unhappiness was the motive for other people’s merriment.
Making a sign to La Houdinière and Cahusac to stop, he alighted from his horse and stole toward these suspiciously cheerful rogues, hoping that the sand, which deadened his footsteps, and the hedge, which concealed his approach, would enable him to get close enough to catch a few words of their conversation, which appeared so interesting. At ten paces from the hedge he recognized the Gascon patois of d’Artagnan, and as he’d already seen that these men were musketeers, he had no doubt that the other three were the ones they called the Inseparables: Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.
As may be imagined, his desire to hear the conversation was only enhanced by this discovery. His eyes took on a strange expression and he advanced toward the hedge like a prowling tiger-cat. But he hadn’t been able to catch more than a few vague disconnected syllables when a short, sharp cry made him start, and drew the attention of the musketeers.
“Officer!” cried Grimaud.
“I believe you are talking, rascal,” said Athos, raising himself on one elbow and skewering Grimaud with an angry glare.
So Grimaud said nothing more, merely pointed his index finger toward the hedge, exposing the presence of the cardinal and his escort.
With a single bound, the four musketeers were on their feet, saluting respectfully.
The cardinal was furious. “It seems Messieurs les Mousquetaires keep their own lookout,” he said. “Are the English coming from inland, or do you musketeers regard yourselves as superior officers?”
“Monseigneur,” replied Athos, for in the general panic only he had preserved the calm and sangfroid of the grand seigneur that never left him, “Monseigneur, the musketeers, when they are not on duty, feel free to drink and play dice—and they are certainly superior officers to their lackeys.”
“Their lackeys!” snapped the cardinal. “Lackeys assigned to warn their masters when someone passes aren’t lackeys, they’re sentries.”
“However, Your Eminence might remark that if we hadn’t taken this precaution, we would have risked allowing you to pass without paying you our respects, or offering you our thanks for the favor you did us in bringing us together. D’Artagnan,” Athos continued, “weren’t you just asking when an opportunity would come to express your gratitude to Monseigneur? Well, here it is; take advantage of it.”
These words were pronounced with that imperturbable calm that distinguished Athos in time of danger, and with that flawless civility that made him, at certain moments, a king more majestic than those born to the throne.
D’Artagnan stepped forward and stammered out a few words of thanks, a stream that dried up under the grim regard of the cardinal.
“It won’t do, Messieurs,” continued the cardinal, with no sign of having been diverted by Athos’s change of subject. “It won’t do. I don’t care to see simple soldiers, just because they have the privilege of serving in an elite corps, thinking they can behave like they’re Grands. Discipline is the same for them as for everyone.”
Athos allowed the cardinal to complete his lecture. Then, bowing as a sign of assent, he said, “I hope discipline, Monseigneur, has in no way been forgotten by us. We are not on duty, and believed that, as we are not on duty, we could dispose of our time however we liked.” Athos knitted his brow; this interrogation was beginning to try his patience. “If we are so fortunate as to receive some particular order from Your Eminence, we are ready to obey. Monseigneur may observe that we have not come out without our arms.” Athos indicated to the cardinal the four muskets, stacked near the drum with its cards and dice.
“As Your Eminence should know,” added d’Artagnan, “we would certainly have gone to meet you, if only we’d supposed that it could be Monseigneur coming with such a small entourage.”
The cardinal gnawed his moustache, and even bit his lip a little. “Do you know what it looks like, the four of you together like this, armed, and guarded by your lackeys?” he said. “You look like conspirators.”
“That’s quite accurate, Monseigneur,” said Athos, “only we conspire, as Your Eminence saw the other morning, against the Rochelois.”
“Always Messieurs les politiques,” replied the cardinal, knitting his brow in his turn. “Many secrets might be revealed if I could read your minds as easily as you read that letter, which you concealed when you saw me coming.”
A flush colored Athos’s face, and he took a step toward His Eminence. “One might almost think you really suspected us, Monseigneur, and we were undergoing an actual interrogation. If so, perhaps Your Eminence will deign to explain himself. That way, at least we would know where we stand.”
“And if it were an interrogation,” the cardinal replied, “others before you have been subjected to them, Monsieur Athos, and have supplied their answers.”
“Quite so, Monseigneur. As I said to Your Eminence, you have but to ask and we’re ready to reply.”
“What was that letter you were about to read, Monsieur Aramis— the one you’ve hidden?”
“A letter from a woman, Monseigneur.”
“Oh, but of course,” said the cardinal. “We must be discreet with that sort of letter—however, we may share them with a confessor, and as you know, I have taken orders.”
“Monseigneur,” said Athos, with a calm all the more terrible as he was risking his neck with this reply, “the letter is from a woman, but it’s signed neither Marion Delorme105 nor Madame de Combalet.”
At this reference to his mistresses, the cardinal turned pale as death and fire flashed from his eyes. He turned as if to give an order to Cahusac and La Houdinière. Athos saw the movement and made a step toward the muskets, while the other three had the grim appearance of men unlikely to allow themselves to be arrested. The cardinal’s party numbered three; the musketeers, including their lackeys, were seven. His Eminence judged that a fight would hardly be equal, if Athos and his companions really were conspiring. With one of those instant reversals of which he was always capable, all the cardinal’s anger faded away into a smile.
“Come, come!” he said. “You are brave young men, devoted in the day and loyal after dark. I can’t fault you for watching over yourselves when you keep such good watch over others. Messieurs, I haven’t forgotten the night you served me as escort to Colombier-Rouge. If there were any danger to be feared on the route I’m following today, I’d beg you to accompany me—but, as there is none, remain where you are, and finish your bottles, your game, and your letter. Adieu, Messieurs.”
And, remounting his horse, which Cahusac had brought to him, he saluted them and rode away.
The four young men, standing silent and motionless, followed him with their eyes until he disappeared.
Then they looked at one another. Dismay showed on all their faces, for notwithstanding His Eminence’s genial goodbye, they knew the cardinal went away with rage in his heart. Athos alone smiled a confident, disdainful smile.
When the cardinal was out of sight and out of hearing, Porthos, wh
o had a strong urge to take out his ill humor on someone, cried, “That Grimaud called out entirely too late!”
Grimaud was about to respond with his excuses, but Athos raised a finger and Grimaud remained silent.
“Would you have given up the letter, Aramis?” said d’Artagnan.
“Me?” said Aramis, in his most melodious tone. “I’d made up my mind that if he insisted on having the letter, I’d give him the letter with one hand, while with the other I’d run him through the body with my sword.”
“I expected as much,” said Athos, “which was why I threw myself between you. In truth, it’s very imprudent of that man to speak that way to other men. You’d think he never dealt with anyone but women and children.”
“I admire you, my dear Athos,” said d’Artagnan, “but after all, we were in the wrong.”
“In the wrong! How’s that?” replied Athos. “Who owns the air we breathe? Who owns the ocean we’re looking at? Who owns the sand we were lying on? Who owns a letter from your mistress? Are these the cardinal’s? Upon my honor, that man thinks the world belongs to him. There you were, stammering, stupefied, annihilated— it was as if the Bastille had suddenly appeared before you like a gigantic Medusa and turned you to stone. Is it conspiracy to be in love? You’re in love with a woman whom the cardinal has incarcerated, and you want to liberate her from the cardinal. That’s a game you’re playing with His Eminence, and that letter is your hand. Do you want to show your hand to your adversary? No; it’s just not done. It’s up to him to find out on his own. And perhaps we can find out what he’s holding!”
“All right,” said d’Artagnan, “what you say makes sense, Athos.”
“In that case, let’s have done with the past, and let Aramis resume reading the letter from his cousin that Monsieur le Cardinal interrupted.”
Aramis drew the letter from his pocket, the three friends clustered around him, and the three lackeys returned to their station near the demijohn.
“You’d only read a line or two,” said d’Artagnan. “Start over, from the beginning.”
“Willingly,” said Aramis.
My Dear Cousin,
I think I’ve made up my mind to take a trip to Béthune,106 where my sister has found a place for our little servant in the Carmelite convent. The poor child is resigned to this, as she knows she can live nowhere else without the salvation of her soul being in danger. However, if your family affairs can be settled as we wish, I believe her willing to run the risk of damnation and return to those she misses, especially as she knows they are always thinking of her. Meanwhile, she’s not too unhappy; what she desires most is a letter from her intended. I’m well aware that it’s difficult for such commodities to pass through convent gates, but as I think I’ve shown, my dear cousin, I’m not unskilled at such things, and will undertake the commission.
My sister thanks you for your good and eternal regard. She’s feeling very anxious at present, but is somewhat reassured now, having sent her aide “across” to make sure nothing unexpected occurs.
Adieu, my dear cousin. Send me news as often as you can—that is to say, as often as you can with safety. I embrace you.
Marie MICHON
“Oh! What don’t I owe you, Aramis?” cried d’Artagnan. “Dear Constance! At last I have news of you! She’s alive, she’s safe in a convent, she’s at Béthune! Uh . . . where is Béthune, Athos?”
“A few leagues from the border, in Artois. Once the siege is lifted, we should be able to take a trip in that direction.”
“And we can hope that won’t be long,” said Porthos, “as this morning they hung a spy who declared that the Rochelois were down to eating the leather of their shoes. I suppose that once they eat the uppers, they’ll have to eat the soles, and I don’t know what they’ll have after that, unless they begin eating each other.”
“Poor fools!” said Athos, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux wine, which, without enjoying the reputation it has today, deserved it nonetheless. “Poor fools! As if there were any religion more advantageous and agreeable than the Catholic religion! Ah, well,” he said, savoring the wine on his tongue and palate, “they certainly are brave men. But what the devil are you doing, Aramis? Are you putting that letter back in your pocket?”
“Athos is right,” said d’Artagnan, “we must burn it. And even if we burn it, how do we know the cardinal doesn’t have some secret way to read the ashes?”
“He must,” said Athos.
“So what would you do with the letter?” asked Porthos.
“Come here, Grimaud,” Athos said.
Grimaud rose and obeyed. “As punishment for speaking without permission, my friend,” Athos said, “you’re going to eat this piece of paper. Then, as recompense for services rendered, you may drink this glass of wine. But first, the letter. Chew it thoroughly.”
Grimaud smiled. Then, with his eyes fixed on the glass, which Athos filled to the brim, he chewed the paper and swallowed it.
“Bravo, Master Grimaud!” said Athos. “And now take this. Fine, you needn’t thank us.”
Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of delicious Bordeaux wine. While doing so, his eyes turned toward heaven, speaking a language no less eloquent for being mute.
“And now,” said Athos, “unless Monsieur le Cardinal should have the ingenious idea of dissecting Grimaud, I think we can be pretty much at our ease.”
Meanwhile, His Eminence continued his melancholy ride, murmuring beneath his mustache, “Decidedly, these four men must be mine.”
LII
The First Day of Captivity
Let us return to Milady, whom our glance at the coast of France has made us lose sight of for an instant.
We find her in the desperate position where we left her, plunged into an abyss of somber reflections, a dismal hell at the gate of which she had nearly abandoned hope. For the first time, she doubts herself; for the first time, she is truly afraid.
Twice fortune has failed her; twice she has been exposed and betrayed, both times by that nemesis sent, no doubt, by the Lord Himself to chastise her. D’Artagnan has defeated her—she, the invincible emissary of evil.
He’s deceived her in love, humiliated her pride, thwarted her ambition—and now he’s ruined her hopes of fortune, stolen her liberty, and even put her life at risk. Worse, he’s lifted the corner of her mask, the aegis that had armored her and made her powerful.
D’Artagnan has shielded Buckingham when Richelieu threatened him through the person of the queen—Buckingham, whom she hates as she hates everything she’s loved. D’Artagnan has passed himself off as de Wardes, whom she’d desired with that feverish passion so characteristic of her. D’Artagnan has learned that terrible secret she’d sworn no one should know and live. Furthermore, just when she’d obtained the carte blanche by which she could take revenge on her enemy, the warrant had been wrested from her hands—and now d’Artagnan holds her prisoner, and is about to send her to some miserable prison colony107 of the Indian Ocean.
She has no doubt but that she owes all this to d’Artagnan. Where else could all these ignominies come, if not from him? Only he could have conveyed to Lord Winter all those frightful secrets, which the Gascon had discovered one after another in a chain of catastrophes. He knew her brother-in-law, and must have written to him.
What hatreds boil in her! She sits, motionless but for blazing eyes that glower at her deserted chamber, silent but for the muted, hissing snarls that occasionally escape her, echoing the sound of the surf as it rises, roars, and shatters, like eternal and impotent despair, against the rocks on which this tall grim castle stands. Lit by the fires of rage in her mind, what magnificent schemes of vengeance she conceives, set in the vague future: against Madame Bonacieux, against Buckingham, but above all, against d’Artagnan.
But to avenge herself, she must be free, and to be free, a prisoner must pierce walls, bend bars, tunnel through floors108—all efforts that might be managed by a strong and patient man, but which a
re unsuited to a woman, with her febrile moods. Besides, to do all this one must have time: months, even years. And as she’d been told by Lord Winter, her brother and her jailer, she had only ten or twelve days.
Nonetheless, she might have tried, and even succeeded—if only she had been a man. Why had heaven erred by placing that virile soul in such a frail and delicate body?
The first minutes of her captivity had been terrible. Her debt to nature had been paid by several uncontrollable fits of rage, tokens of feminine weakness. But gradually she overcame these convulsions of mad fury; the nervous tremors that shook her diminished, and she coiled herself up, like an exhausted serpent recovering its strength.
“Allons, allons,” she said to herself, “I must have been mad to get so carried away.” She peered into her mirror, scrutinized herself with eyes like embers. “No more violence,” she said. “Violence is the proof of weakness. Besides, I’ve never employed it successfully. If I used it against women, maybe I’d find them weaker than me, and defeat them. But it’s men I’m pitted against, and to them I’m merely a woman. So I’ll fight like a woman and make a strength of my weakness.”
Then, as if to reassure herself of her control over her features, so mobile and expressive, she made them assume every sort of expression, from the hideous distortion of rage to the sweetest, most affectionate, most alluring smile. Then she turned her hands to dressing her hair, trying every arrangement that might enhance the charms of her face. Eventually, satisfied with herself, she murmured, “Come, nothing is lost. I’m still beautiful.”
By then it was nearly eight o’clock in the evening. Milady looked toward the bed, thinking that a few hours of rest would refresh her mind, as well as her complexion. However, while preparing for sleep, she had a better idea. She recalled that someone had said something about supper. She’d already been in the chamber for an hour, so it wouldn’t be long before they brought her meal. Determined not to lose any time, she resolved to make, that very evening, some opening move to test her fetters, and study the character of the people in whose charge she found herself.